


Where the Heart Is

by lucymonster



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gang Rape, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 15:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8539174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymonster/pseuds/lucymonster
Summary: Bucky knows this place inside out. For as long as he's home, it's safe to drop his guard.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [this prompt](http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2271.html?thread=4590047#cmt4590047) on the Hydra Trash Meme. Polishing it up now because we officially live in a dystopian hellscape and if we're going to feel betrayed and vulnerable at least we can still get off on it.

As apartments go, it isn't much. The lease said pre-furnished; the rickety bed frame, rickety dining chair and rickety card table all came with. Bucky has since acquired a mattress, a couple of storage boxes and a small bookshelf that slides in neatly under the windowpane. It's all that fits. It's all he needs.

He knows every square inch of his space, and everything he owns has a home somewhere inside. On the bookshelf, his battered little library of shitty dog-eared sci-fi and old journals and glossy cookbooks he keeps meaning to learn from. In the pantry, an emergency stash of canned foods and a half-dozen bottles of raspberry preserve from nice old Mrs Logan down the hall. In the cupboard by the door, his body armour and main weapons stash. In the drawer beside his bed, a handful of miscellaneous personal effects and his current journal.

Everything is set up so that he can access whatever he wants at a moment's notice, one-handed, with ease. He could find his way around with his eyes closed. If someone ever came rummaging while he was out, he'd know about it as soon as he crossed the threshold.

Bucky locks the door carefully behind him, hangs his keys on the nail by his door and slides his bags off his forearm onto the kitchen counter. He braved the local markets this morning, and his coat has a damp sheen from the misty rain that started up on his walk home. The clouds have settled in and the streets outside are a dull, dreary grey.

Technically he’s supposed to be going back out for a run with Steve. But now that he’s home, Bucky doesn’t really want to leave. Inside is warm and dry and comfortable, and the last thing he wants to do is to waste the rest of his morning sloshing through puddles on their boring old jogging track. He pulls his phone from his pocket and taps out a white lie: _Think I’m getting sick. Raincheck on our run today._

His phone beeps moments later. _You okay man?_

_Yeah. Resting up._

Social obligations disposed of, Bucky has the rest of his Sunday clear. It’s a nice thought – and a rare one, these days, now that Steve’s back in his life. He can spend the whole day just enjoying the peace and quiet in his apartment. He starts with a long, luxurious shower to wash the cold morning air off his skin. He changes into comfy track pants and a sweater and knots his empty sleeve out of the way. He packs away his groceries, turning over his to-do list in his mind – maybe for lunch he’ll try that omelette recipe again. Cook up a batch of pasta sauce to freeze. Take a load of laundry down to the basement. Scrub the bathroom. If he gets restless later this afternoon, he’ll do some circuit training. Might as well use his downtime productively.

But for now he’s feeling lazy and relaxed, and all he wants to do is crack open one of Mrs Logan’s jams and curl up on a cushion by the radiator with a few slices of toast and a book. The cold makes his stump ache. He leans his body against the radiator and lets the heat work its magic.

The soft white noise of rain drumming on his window helps block out the world outside, and his novel does the rest of the work. Bucky loses track of time, which is another luxury so new and so pleasant that he still hasn’t learned to take it for granted. He hears creaking in the hallway, and tunes it out with ease – it’s just one of his neighbours taking out their laundry, nothing worth breaking a sweat for. He reads a chapter, and another. The kid downstairs has his stereo turned up too loud again, but the dull bass thump just blends in with the rain. On another day the noise might freak him out. His therapist calls it hypervigilance – a constant state of anxious arousal, where every unexpected sound or movement sends him careening into survival mode.

It’s worse out on the streets, surrounded by strangers and unfamiliar sights. It’s taken a long time to learn how to switch off when he’s at home. But he knows this apartment inside out. He knows who his neighbours are, and what their movements sound like; he knows what to expect. For as long as he’s home, it’s safe to drop his guard.

He reaches the end of another chapter and gets up to stretch. The floor is comfortable for the first little while, but his next investment is definitely going to be an armchair. Or maybe a beanbag that he can shove under the bed when he’s not using it, to maximise floor space –

There’s a shattering sound and a sharp, stabbing pain in his neck, and Bucky’s first, irrational feeling is irritation because the shock made him fumble his book and now he’s going to have to pick it up off the floor and find his page again.

And then his brain catches up with him, just in time for his body to collapse as the poison dart in his neck hits his bloodstream.

Armoured, masked bodies are streaming into the tiny room through the shattered window. The drug has spread through Bucky’s veins as quick as blinking, a paralytic of some kind – all the strength has left his muscles, and he can barely lift his own head to watch the hit team advance on him. Everything feels surreal, separate from him somehow. Years of running and fighting and surviving against impossible odds, and now he’s going to die helpless on the floor in his own home and he’ll never find out how his novel ends.

“Get him up,” growls a voice that sounds semi-familiar. After the initial breaking of the window, the attackers have been almost perfectly silent. The stereo downstairs thuds on. The apartment is running on its own separate time, everything unfolding at impossible speed while the rest of the world enjoys its leisurely Sunday. Gloved hands seize Bucky under the armpits and drag him over to the bed. Through the weird haze of shock and disconnection, he feels a tiny bubble of relief. If he’s really about to die, at least he gets to do it in the comfort of his own bed. People always say that’s the best way to go.

He lands with a gentle thud on the mattress and one of the attackers follows him, weight bearing down on the back of his thighs. He hears the soft snick of a knife leaving its sheath – messier than a bullet to the brain, but if they do it right he won’t have to care for long. A ripping sound and a sudden chill of air on his skin.

They’re cutting his clothes off. And it’s then, only then that it clicks into place: they haven’t come here to kill him.

The bubble bursts. Reality comes rushing back in, and all at once everything feels vividly, terrifyingly, agonisingly real. He tries to fight back, but his body won’t respond, he’s as limp and helpless as a ragdoll and he can hear the zip of a fly being undone. Some of the men are watching; others are casing the apartment, jostling past each other in the tiny space, opening cupboards and knocking things over and sticking their heads into everything, and Bucky can hardly tell which one feels like the bigger violation.

And then the man on top parts his cheeks and shoves his hard cock inside Bucky’s ass and there’s no question anymore.

It hurts like hell, but the eerie silence of the attackers is contagious; he can’t let old Mrs Logan hear what’s happening in here. Anyone who comes to his aid is in as much trouble as he is, probably worse. There’s absolutely nothing he can do. Can’t fight back, can’t run – where would he even run? He’s _home_. This is the only place he has to run to. It feels like his insides are being torn open, and the man is fucking him hard and fast, and the onlookers are jeering quietly, scuffing their filthy boots all over his clean soft carpet, pulling all his gear out of the cupboards, subjecting every inch of his space to their invasion.

“You thought you got away from us,” the man pants in Bucky’s ear. “Thought you could fuck us all over and get away with it, didn’t you?” The voice is familiar, but he can’t place it, doesn’t want to place it. Another vicious thrust. He bites his lip against the pain. “Bitch, we _own_ you. We’re done with you when we say we’re done. And you’re gonna remember that for the rest of your pathetic life.”

He pulls Bucky’s hips up off the bed, forcing his head down and his ass up. The new angle makes the pain worse, from a dull ache to a sharp, lancing pain every time the cock pounds into him. With his face buried in the pillow he can barely get enough oxygen. Maybe he’ll black out, and then he’ll be oblivious to whatever they decide to do to him. It’s the only escape he can hope for.

“I’m gonna fuck you like the bitch you are,” the man growls. He’s pushing in deeper, so deep that his balls slap against Bucky’s with every thrust. “And then every man in this room is gonna fuck you, one by one. And then, when you think your ass can’t take another second of it, I’m gonna come back and fuck you again.”

“Look at this,” says someone else. One of the agents has picked up his novel. “ _The Dragon Rider’s Thrall_. What the fuck is this shit? Are you a dragon rider now, Soldat?”

There is a round of guffaws. Bucky’s cheeks burn. He knows his books are stupid – that’s the point. They’re fun and light and low-stakes, and Steve’s always ribbing him about his trashy taste but it’s no one else’s business what he reads in his down time.

“I think he’s embarrassed.” The man on top of Bucky grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back so that everyone can see his face. His spine feels like it’s going to break from the angle. “Are you embarrassed, Soldat? You didn’t want us to know that this is what you do now? Decades of the best training Hydra could give you, and all you want to do is sit around reading this geeky shit about dragons.” Another thrust, and another, and another. Bucky’s ass burns, his insides clench up against the intrusion but there’s nothing he can do to force it out. “You must be bored out of your fucking mind, huh? Thank God we’re here to liven things up for you.”

The other guy drops the book with a snort of laughter, and kicks it across the floor.

Bile is rising in Bucky’s throat, and every thrust makes his stomach lurch. The rhythm is starting to falter now, the man’s getting close; he comes with a quiet grunt of satisfaction, and when he pulls out Bucky can feel something warm and sticky dripping down his thighs.

He lets go of Bucky’s hips and Bucky flops back down onto the mattress. He’s panting for breath, hole burning, guts aching. “Who’s up next?”

“I am.” No hesitation, no ceremony. The next guy unzips his fly, straddles Bucky’s hips, stuffs his cock in and it starts all over again. Bucky’s nerves feel raw and inflamed, and a pained sob rises in his throat. He bites it down and tries desperately to focus on something else, _anything_ else. But there’s nothing left around him to focus on; the whole place is trashed. Someone has pulled the radiator off the wall, and cold air is gusting in through the broken window, and the stump of his arm is aching like it never stopped.

“Listen to this,” laughs one of the guys by the bookshelf. They’re paging through the contents, knocking books off the shelves as they go, and … oh god, they’ve found his journals. “ _The nightmares are coming back again. The sleeping pills don’t stop them – they just stop me from waking up. I told Christine_ – who’s Christine, Soldat? Is she your girlfriend?”

Another guy snorts and snatches the book. “Like this little bitch could ever get a girlfriend. She’s his therapist, look. _I told Christine it just makes things worse, talking about old memories all the time. She said it’s a good thing I’m starting to feel angry and scared again instead of just numb._ Jesus Christ, I gotta stop reading, this is pathetic. My balls are gonna shrivel up.”

The entry is from about a year ago; Bucky remembers it well. It was one of the big turning points in his therapy, though it didn’t feel that way at the time – the first time it really occurred to him that ‘numb’ and ‘fine’ weren’t as synonymous as he’d thought.

“Do you think we’re _scaring_ him again?” the guy on top of him says, with a particularly hard thrust that jolts all the way up Bucky’s spine. The pain is spreading: his stomach is cramping up, head throbbing in time with the rape. “You gonna need some more _therapy_ , huh?” Another hard thrust. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. He won’t cry out. It’s the only choice left that he can make for himself – everything else is in their hands.

“You should never have run,” the man says, gripping Bucky’s hair tight and grinding his face deeper into the pillow. His face is buried in an indent the perfect size of his head, where he falls asleep each night; he can smell his own shampoo on the case. “You should have kept your stupid bitch _feelings_ in check, shouldn’t you? Then we wouldn’t have had to do this to you.”

“Oh, I dunno, I’m glad he’s making us do it,” says another. “Hurry the fuck up, I want my turn.”

They keep on coming. The next guy is bigger, thicker, the stretch is like being split in half; cum dribbles out of Bucky’s ass every time they pull out, trickling down over his balls, staining the bedsheets. Surely he must be bleeding by now. Another cock replaces the last, and this guy hauls his hips up off the bed and holds him there like a wheelbarrow, slamming into him over and over while his soft dick slaps uselessly on his belly and his spine screams its protest at the twisted angle. The next guy hangs him upside-down off the bed while he fucks him, and blood rushes to Bucky’s head until his brain feels sodden with it. They’re enjoying themselves, tossing him around like a ragdoll, and he’s too weak and limp to do anything about it. Upside-down guy comes, another steps up to take his turn. Christine was wrong. Numb wouldn’t be so bad right now – numb would be heaven.

They’re not stopping. He’s lost count of how many men have fucked him. His hole spasms around them when they push in and gapes when they pull out. Some of them have had two, three turns. They’re not getting tired. Low, involuntary moans are starting to spill from Bucky’s mouth. He can hear them as if they’re coming from someone else, but he can’t make them stop.

“I think he wants something to plug up his pie-hole,” says one of the men.

“Well I ain’t sticking mine in there,” says another. “He’s still got teeth, doesn’t he?”

“Holy shit, boys, I’ve hit the jackpot. Look at this.”

Someone has pulled open the drawer by Bucky’s bed. It’s where he keeps the few small, personal items that have no use anywhere else in the apartment, the ones he doesn’t want anyone to see. The rummager turns to face the group and in his hand is a beanie bear, a stupid, childish, pointless thing Steve gave him when they went to Coney Island.

Gave? More like attacked him with it. Steve won the thing at the milk bottles, and he and Bucky spent the next half-hour pegging it at each other’s heads, the kind of senseless, idiotic game that made perfect sense at the time. Somehow it ended up in Bucky’s hands when the game was over, and it’s been in that drawer ever since, smiling goofily up at him on the rare occasions he’s bored and sentimental enough to open it.

A round of nasty laughter goes around the room. “Let him suck on that,” says one of the onlookers. “It’s nearly as good as a binkie.”

They stuff the beanie bear inside Bucky’s mouth, jamming it in until his cheeks bulge and his throat spasms. It tastes dry and sticky, with a faint trace of old cotton candy in the fur. For a split second it’s like being back on Coney Island, laughing with Steve as the carnival lights gleam all around them. At least it’s doing something to muffle the sounds. All his plans of defiant silence have gone right out the broken window.

But there are worse things left for them to find in that drawer. The man throws another journal on the floor, tosses aside a wad of old receipts and a couple of clean handkerchiefs, and Bucky scrunches his eyes shut and bites down hard on the bear and tries to brace himself for the new impending humiliation.

In the back of the drawer, along with a bottle of lube and a couple of optimistic condoms, Bucky keeps a small black dildo with a flared base and a silky silicone knob on the end. It’s slender and a little springy, the perfect undemanding size for him. It was an impulse buy, a curiosity – mostly he was just taken aback to learn that you _could_ buy things like that in the twenty-first century.

Then he fucked himself with it for the first time and it stopped seeming quite as stupid. The orgasm blew everything else out of the water.

With his head ringing and one ear mashed into the pillow, Bucky can still hear the howls of laughter as his precious, intimate secret is revealed to the room.

“Well, will you look at that.” It’s the voice of the ringleader – the eerily familiar man who kicked the whole ordeal off. “And here I thought we were punishing you. You like it up the ass, don’t you, you filthy little fag?”

Another round of guffaws. Even the guy fucking Bucky has stopped. He’s barely hard anyway – he’s been at least twice already. He’s only still in there out of spite. Somehow the thought is more humiliating than if he were actually enjoying himself.

“Flip him over,” says the ringleader. “If this is how he likes it, who are we to say no?” Oh, God. Rough hands grab Bucky’s shoulders and roll him onto his back, and the man is kneeling on the bed in front of him, still in full black armour and balaclava, clutching the dildo in his fist like a knife. Bucky’s hole is so sore that it barely even registers that no one’s fucking him anymore. He’s gaping and sloppy, spasming around thin air. The beanie bear is still in his mouth, puffing out his cheeks. Tears are leaking from the corners of his eyes. Helpless fury is rising up inside him, hot and sick and suffocating. It’s his dildo, his stupid little private indulgence, and they’re taking it away from him and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it. He should never have let his guard down. He should never have let stupid fucking Christine con him into thinking he was safe, that his fears and suspicions and survival instincts were a problem rather than a level-headed necessity. He let her turn him soft and pathetic and now this is the punishment he gets for it.

“Here you go,” says the man, and stuffs the dildo inside his battered hole. It slides in with no resistance. The man starts pumping it in and out, hard and fast and ruthless, and the curved tip hits Bucky’s bruised prostate in a way that makes him want to howl. “Is this how you like it? Is this how you fuck yourself every night, right before you cry yourself to sleep over your mean old therapist who makes you take your sleeping pills?”

The first time he fucked himself, he did cry afterwards. He wasn’t even sad – it was like opening the floodgates on a dam he didn’t even know was there, and after he’d mopped up and dumped the used toy in the sink he just lay there for a while in his warm, cozy bed and cried himself to sleep over nothing. He wrote it down, the same way he writes down all his memories – it’s somewhere inside one of the journals currently being trampled under dozens of jackboots.

“He loves it, fucking hell, look.” Maybe the pain and shame have driven him past the threshold of sanity; maybe his body is just taking over on its own through sheer force of habit. But the dildo is pounding into his prostate at the same angle he always does it, harder and more brutal than he’s ever dared, and Bucky is getting hard. His stiffening cock is hot against his stomach, a final brand of humiliation.

“Of course he loves it.” With the hand not working the dildo, the attacker grabs Bucky’s cock and starts to stroke. “God, you’re a pathetic fucking mess, you know that? I told you, we fucking own you. Do you get it yet? Hydra _owns_ you, and you love it.”

They’re circling around him, closing in. Some of them are pulling their dicks out again, jerking it over him, kneeling above his head, balls dangling right down close to his face. He shuts his eyes and bites down harder on the beanie bear. Another hand joins the one on his cock, spit-wet, rubbing over the head. He’s too exhausted to care anymore. They’ve taken everything; he might as well give into it. The air reeks of cum and blood, and the first hot splash that hits his face barely even registers. They come in is hair, all over his chest, his face, his arms, his stomach.

He’s going to come too. It’s surging up inside him way too fast, he’s in some kind of shock state, like his body doesn’t even know what’s happening anymore. His guts are clenching and his ass is burning and he’s going to come, with his favourite toy pounding in and out of him and a room full of enemies looking on and laughing.

In the end it’s not even an orgasm so much as a wracking, gut-wrenching shudder as the cum spills out of him. The beanie baby absorbs most of the noise he makes; the laughter drowns out the rest of it.

The dildo slips right out of him once the handle is released. His wrecked hole can’t hang onto it. “Drug’s gonna wear off soon,” says one of the men. It feels like he’s been lying here helpless for hours, days, his whole life. It’s hard to remember what muscle control feels like. “We done with him, boss?”

“Not yet.” The ringleader unzips again, and pulls his cock out, and leans right in close to Bucky’s face. “I told you at the start – once you’re all used up, I’m gonna fuck you one last time for good measure. And I always keep my promises.”

What’s one more cock after everything he’s taken? It doesn’t matter anymore; Bucky’s head is spinning, he’s starting to float away. The sick squelch and the one last pounding barely register. The guy pulls out right before he comes, and yanks away the beanie bear and squirts all over Bucky’s mouth.

And then – impossibly – it’s over. The men are leaving out the window, one by one. Bucky flops his head to one side and spits out bitter cum all over his pillow. It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it matters. He can feel his muscles start to re-engage, but he can’t bring himself to try and use them. He just lies there, semen drying on his skin, insides aching like they’re going to fall right out of him. Hell, maybe they will. He’s gaping wide enough.

Time passes. He manages to roll onto his side and curl up. Maybe he’s dozing off, or maybe he’s going into shock. It’s hard to say. He doesn’t care enough to try and decide.

There are footsteps in the hall. A key turns in the lock, and the door is creaking open, and suddenly Bucky cares very, very much, after all – but it’s too late. Steve stops dead in the doorway and stares, a carry bag hanging limply from his hand.

“I … I brought you some soup …” Steve says.


End file.
